


Only for You

by BlueButterflyDreamer



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Character Death, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Marston has self-worth issues, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Prompt Fic, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueButterflyDreamer/pseuds/BlueButterflyDreamer
Summary: John goes back for Arthur.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Only for You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MorstonWeek2020: Day 1 'first kiss' and day 3 'patching up wounds'.

He runs.

At first, as quickly as he can, long limbs flapping like a sheet on a clothesline.

Blindly moving through the trees and shoving his way along through underbrush, head down, his ears still ringing from the gunshots.

They hang in the air; the echoes, the shouts, and most of all, Arthur’s last words.

Overwhelming fear, a profound sense of loss, and then guilt takes root in him and he knows he has made a mistake. One that has cost him that which is most dear to him, more than _anything_ in his life. ‘ _How’d it take so long to realize that?’_ he wonders.

Or is he just as stupid as they told him he is so often?

Or is that all he’s got: His stupidity?

He’s lost, perhaps, the one man he really thought of as a father; sure, not the one who’d given life to him, but had raised him, taught him to read, to be a man. Or at least _try_ to be one.

He thought of the others, now long gone and mouldering away in their graves – and for what? Some madman’s reasonings and half-thought-out ideas? The temptation of riches beyond his dreams that turned to dust as soon as he grew close to them? A man that once had his respect, his love, his loyalty, but a man that had turned on him, left him by the railway tracks to die, then was caught, tortured and beaten, awaiting his time to die at the end of a rope, swinging in the wind.

He starts to recall the incidents leading up to the last stand.

Micah, the _rat_ ; Dutch’s ultimate ride into madness; the deaths of so many of the gang.

Most of all, he thought of how he had belonged to a family, even however strange a family it might have been.

He now runs zig-zagging, tears blinding him, making him oblivious to the crooked hands, grasping and snatching at him. He receives slaps across his face, his clothes catch on limbs that poke at him, but yet he runs.

He skitters across loose stone, tries to catch himself, stumbles but slips then finally collapses to his knees, the trousers tearing and exposing bare flesh, his outstretched hands sliding across gravel and cutting into his palms.

He curses himself, his stupidity, his _cowardice_.

He curls inward, upon himself, into a tight ball as more memories drag him down into their bitter depths. He sees them as if moving on a screen in one of those tents that you paid a dollar to watch the moving pictures. Fuzzy, gray, out of focus images, badly lit and flying past… except for one. One that shines brightly and causes him to gasp.

_Arthur. Arthur. Arthur._

He clutches his sides and screams in anguish at the memory of the man he just went and left. How _could_ he? How could he have just left him there to die, _for_ him? What kind of selfish bastard _is_ he, to take that sort of sacrifice for granted?

It was wrong, _so goddamned wrong_ in so many ways. It’s almost as though it’s something Dutch would’ve done. And the mere thought of being _anything_ like Dutch is enough to turn his stomach.

He rights himself forcefully, standing on shaking legs, scrubbing at the snot and hot tears that leave snaking trails down his cheeks and into the scruff of his beard.

His eyes dart around at the sounds assaulting his ears; the howl of a wolf, then a river ahead. The smell of the woods fills his nostrils, strong like the earth beneath his feet. The wind rushes against his skin and on it, he hears another sound; a soft nicker, the whinny of a horse.

Is it _not_ like Arthur to meet a situation head on, to stand tall and not shy away from it? Even though the odds are stacked against him, even when in the face of adversity, even when it’s come hell or highwater – he never faltered.

It is in that instant that John makes his choice, free of any persuasion, any sense of presumed or forced opinion. Only his own.

He begins to move quickly, pushing through the trees, slowing when at last he sources the sound of the rider-less horse. Its eyes are rolling with fear, make him pause for a moment; he sees the foam at her nostrils, a lather of sweat wrapped around her body. Her reins, caught on a branch, have impeded her escape and he wonders if she was one of the Pinkertons’ mounts. He understands her fear as though it is his very own.

He reaches for her, soothing words, low and sweet spilling from his lips to her ears. He catches hold of the bridle, then lays a hand on her neck, stroking her, steadying her. He leans into her, assuring her that he means no harm then swiftly puts one leg into the stirrup and pulls himself onto her back.

She arches, twisting in her fear, hooves leaving the ground and tries to throw him off, but he clings to her, still speaking in soft tones. Mercifully, she finally calms, ears twitching forward, hooves resting gently on the ground.

He leans forward and speaks softly into her ear, tells her of his plan then pats her neck as he squeezes with his knees. She responds, as if understanding his urgency as she shoots out of the clearing, and back the way he came.

They fly, time passing by quickly as they do, heading back to an uncertainty that has opened a deep pit within his stomach.

_‘Too late, am I too late?’_ he thinks to himself. What does he do if he is? A cold clammy feeling grips him, stomach twisting at the thought of what could be, what possibly already is. It makes him breathless with fear.

He dismounts, tying her reins to a low-lying bush.

“Wait here for me, girl,” he whispers gently, laying a parting hand on her withers.

He moves, scrambling along the rising ground, moving quietly and keeping low. His revolver is in his hand, ready for anything that comes at him. He reaches his intended goal and pauses.

He hears them first, the arguing; the sickening pleading of the one who wormed his way into their family and brought nothing but hate, and misery, and pain. Then there’s the other above it; the calm, reassuring voice of reasoning that had, for so long, been the guiding beacon for them, that monolith of stability now demolished by the lies weighted by other lies created in the madness he had succumbed to.

Then came another voice belonging to the one he’s seeking; raspy, aching with hurt and sadness, full of the pain from the betrayal thrust upon him and no doubt the wounds inflicted by so many others who sought to hunt them.

He creeps forward and sees them, the familiar silhouettes of Dutch, Micah, and there laying on the ground, bleeding and coughing, is Arthur.

_“Dutch!”_

He steps out of the shadows, revolver raised, Dutch whirling to face John’s abrupt appearance in surprise. Micah’s mouth opens, either to shout caution or warn John to remain where he is, twin revolvers in hand. John regards them both, one’s face wrought with indecision, the other’s levelling with a purpose as clear as it had been from the beginning of his injection into their family.

Without hesitation, and knowing there isn’t time for another chance, he releases his wrath on the ones he deems responsible – a bullet for the mastermind’s heart and another for the trickster’s forehead. A third echoes in the night; he doesn’t feel it. Their bodies thump to the stone, soulless and empty.

Blood flows, viscous and oozing, a river soaking into the soles of his boots, joining his own blood but he cares little for his own pain.

Blue smoke rises up to hide his face, acrid and bitter. When it clears, his eyes take the in the carnage his breath hitches, a deep painful sob ripping up and out of his heaving chest, ringing off the rocks around him. He’s killed Dutch van der Linde.

He couldn’t give a damn about Micah.

He holsters his still-smoking revolver and rushes forward, hands reaching out, tugging at buckskin leather and trying to turn Arthur over. The burn in his injured limb, pulling the raw edges of the new hole in his left arm becomes near unbearable, but he bears it.

Then, it all stops when he rolls Arthur onto his back and sees his face. There is no burning pain anymore, as if by some miracle.

Eyes, blue, confused and clouded, open to stare at him in shock.

“J-John? I… I told you to go!”

John cries, tears running freely down his cheeks trailing through dust and blood. Salty and bittersweet on his tongue as he licks his lips. He wipes them away with his sleeve and splutters at first instead of answering.

When he finally can gather the words to speak, he says one word. A word that means more than anything to him. A word that means the _world_ to him. A word that cools the heat of his anger, that soothes the wounds of all that’s transpired, quenching his parched soul.

_“Arthur.”_

He leans in closer and kisses his face, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead.

“Arthur.”

Arthur shoves him back, looking at the man in front of him as if for the first time. John isn’t sure how to define the expression on his face, not quite refutation but… a perplexed wonder.

He repeats himself. “Told… I _told_ you to go.”

John lowers his head, his hair falling across his face. “I ain’t goin’ _nowhere_ without ya.”

Arthur tries to raise himself up, but falls back with a tight wince. John moves around and pulls him into his arms, holding him.

“You damn fool,” Arthur mumbles.

John chuckles. “I’m only a fool for you, Morgan.”

Arthur’s grimace lapses into a weak smile.

They remain there for a moment, as the sky overhead begins to brighten and the stars are swallowed in the growing light of dawn.

“Can you walk, Morgan?”

“ _A-yup_ , yer gonna have to help.”

John struggles to his feet, pulling Arthur up, weight sagging heavily against his side.

They pause momentarily, gazing down at the two men laying amidst the blood, a dark shadow staining the rock. Their eyes blank and lifeless, staring up at the dawning zenith above.

“Damn fool,” Arthur says. “If only he had listened. Didn’t have to end this way.”

John shuffled them closer, staring down at Dutch, not quite experiencing guilt but something shifting between remorse and pity. “Maybe not for him, but for Micah? It sure as _hell_ did.”

They pick their way down the hillside carefully, each step causing Arthur to moan from his injuries.

“Can you make it further, Morgan?”

“Just get me to where ye’re going,” he snaps.

They shuffle along, John half-carrying him, half-dragging him until they reach the horse, still waiting as he’d hoped she would. It takes a few attempts, but John finally manages to get Arthur up on the horse, once she’s stopped trying to dance away, no doubt from the scent of open wounds.

John seats himself behind Arthur, letting him lean back against his chest. He can smell his blood; its rich and metallic pungent tang fills his nostrils.

Squeezing his thighs against the horse’s side, he urges her forward and along the darkened trail through the trees, back towards the river where he’d found her.

They ride easy, slowly gaining distance from the hill, the corpses wearing familiar faces. The woods thin out, the landscape becomes a blur.

Overhead, the moon is sinking into the distant horizon, her swollen white orb no longer there to guide them, the first rays of the sun streaking the clouds.

Arthur falls in and out of consciousness, his breathing laboured. “It hurts… it hurts too much.” John can feel the blood staining his thigh, free-flowing from the wound in his side.

Anything else he says dwindles to an unintelligible mumble, but before he finally gives over to the darkness and he slumps against John, manages softly:

“You’re a fool, Marston.”

John chuckles, a deep-knowing throaty chuckle.

“Only for you, Morgan.”

*

They eventually stop.

John slips from the saddle, and pulls Arthur down as gently as he can. He props him up against a fallen log, checks his breathing, nodding to himself before heading back to the horse. She blows through her nose at him, distrusting, but she doesn’t kick.

He stuffs the bedroll strapped to the saddle beneath his good arm and digs through the saddle bag, coming up with enough of what he needs, returning to Arthur to kneel beside him, laying out the roll and the supplies alongside it. He touches his face gently, rousing Arthur from that state of in-between consciousness and sleep, looking up at John with those blue eyes that he could fall into over and over again.

_Focus, Marston_. Get a fire started first, then deal with the injuries.

There are enough sticks lying about, and a few hasty handfuls provides a small fire, the flames licking at the wood within minutes. Carefully, he returns to Arthur; removing his jacket, shirt and vest, he eases him down onto the bedroll. His hands come away slick with blood, and he can see the gaping gunshot wound oozing without obstructions. It isn’t bad, but then again, he isn’t a doctor. It could be worse than it looks.

Dousing the wounds and his knife with the bit of whiskey he came up with in the saddlebag, he sets to work, confronting the bullet in his shoulder first, getting the blade’s tip into the wound and digging slowly, catching the bullet and prying it loose. Arthur’s face is white, perspiration soaking the fringe of his hair.

The second bullet is lodged by a rib, having bounced off the bone and burrowed into the flesh. John searches for a spare stick, cramming it between Arthur’s teeth, rinsing the knife in whiskey again before prodding at the afflicting lump of metal.

The stick snaps.

All in all, Arthur was lucky, John thinks dryly. It was only two he’d picked up, but countless others had marked his skin with their passing, the raised red scars mingling with puckered white tissue.

He pours the whiskey freely over the wounds, Arthur’s heel striking off the ground in pained complaint. John sits back a little, tugging off his coat and moping at his own brow, shoulders tight with tension. The sleeve of his shirt is heavy, soppy with the blood from the bullet through his own shoulder and the other in his bicep.

“Y’okay?” he asks.

The low laugh is followed by, “Goddamn fool, do I _look_ okay?”

He lays a hand on his face. “It’s gonna hurt like hell,” he warns.

Arthur groans, rolling his eyes. “Already does, idiot.”

John pulls a bullet from his belt and opens it carefully. He taps out the black powder into the wounds and then he lights it with a match, searing the wounds closed. The smell of burning skin and blood is horrible, but less than what it would have been if they turned with gangrene.

Arthur drifts off into unconsciousness, pain threshold surpassed.

Taking the hot blade and laying it flat against the worst of the other wounds, he methodically closes them. Arthur doesn’t move this time; John accepts the small mercy.

Finding a spare shirt stuffed into the saddlebag, he rips it into a few strips, builds two pads, and wraps them firm against the wounds. He knows he will need to keep an eye the makeshift dressings and change them soon, but for now, it will have to do.

He checks Arthur, laying his head on his chest and hearing his heartbeat, steady and strong. Sinking back on his heels, he watches the man, face slack in his slumber.

Cleaning the knife, he sets to work on the bullet still wedged into his shoulder, the one shot into him that sent him off the side of the army train. His teeth sink into his lip, leaving the taste of copper on his tongue.

It isn’t easy to keep as quiet sealing the bullet holes shut, and the knife clatters to the ground, his breath hissing between his teeth.

The weight of the situation lessens some, if not by a lot, but some nonetheless.

John kneels by the fire, feeding it small pieces to keep it going, then lays close to Arthur on his side, hand resting on the bone grip of his revolver and closes his eyes for just… a few minutes.

*

When Arthur wakes, he’s unsure of his surroundings at first. There’s a campfire burning low, the woodsy smoke filling his nose, and then something else. Food?

He lifts his head and recognizes the figure hunched by the fire, roasting something over the flames.

“Why?” he croaks.

The figure turns quickly, taken by surprise, then a smile appears on the scarred familiar face. _John._

“Huh?”

Arthur clears his throat and asks again. _“Why?”_

The response is curt in its brevity. “Y’know why.”

Arthur nods, though not sure if he is on the same page as Marston, or if he imagines he is.

He asks another question this time, to be sure, wondering if the answer will be the one he hopes to hear:

“All this time?”

John smiles slyly at him. “I guess.”

Arthur groans and shifts uneasily on the bedroll. “You _shoar?_ ”

John nods, a lopsided grin appears. He looks like a grinning wolf, hiding something.

Arthur rubs his face, brain churning a mile an hour. “Now what?” he asks, a little quieter.

John slides over beside him, smiling that smile that Arthur has seen and loved for so much of his life.

“I don’t reckon I know for sure, but we can take our time and find out.” There’s a question there, an optimistic plea; they’ve come this far now, and there isn’t no turning back. Arthur looks off to the fire, uncertain, but unable to find the heart to let him down.

John inches closer.

“I guess we’ll see then,” Arthur whispers.

John nods his head.

Arthur reaches out a hand and tenderly touches John’s face, tracing the old scars there. “All this time and you _never_ said a word?”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

John leans in and kisses Arthur, Arthur kisses him back, a little clumsily at first. A hand slides up his neck, fingers sinking into his hair.

They sit, side by side in the firelight, leaning into each other.

“You’re a damn fool, Marston.”

“Only for you, Morgan, only for you.”


End file.
